Legend Centaurus
by The Two-Tailed Cat
Summary: Mortals lead a life of glory, peace, or tragedy. Then they are whisked away to the Underworld where they will be rewarded with Elysian peace or punished for eternity. For someone who can't die, however, life and death is a completely different matter.
1. Sunrise

It is Heracles who insists I write it all down. He said he wants my tale to live on when I am gone, wants my story to stand alongside his own. He is so sure that his legend, which he solidifies each day with sweat and blood and tears, will be remembered one thousand years from now. I don't doubt him. Heracles is like that. What he wants, he will get, through his own power or others. And his power is great.

"A pupil should always give credit to the teacher," he told me. "A man is nothing without his teacher, not even a pupil." And then, in a smaller voice and averted eyes, "You deserve more than I can give you." And I know that he still feels guilty, that he will always hold himself accountable for everything that happened. No comforting words from me will take the blame from him; he took my life, but he will make sure that every young man knows that life.

The very beginning, then. I am unable to recall anything before Apollo found me. I was not more than a few decades old then, and everything I knew of my heritage I learned from Apollo. I was born to the then Almighty God Cronus the Titan, and Philyra, daughter of Oceanus. My father took the shape of a stallion when he and my mother mated, thus explained why I was born with a man's torso and a horse's body. I am the very first of the Centaurs, but even amongst them I am different.

There is only one piece of memory that I remember from my childhood. Like many of life's ironies, it is a memory that I would rather do without.

The setting was a rocky terrain, with miserable shrubs strewn messily about the ground. A yellowing tree limped close to the ground, its limbs withered and weary. The sky was heavy with dusty clouds. There is a woman; I think she is my mother. It always amuses me how with the infinite wisdom that everyone seems to think I possess, I can't remember my own mother. The woman is paler than milk, her arms were trembling. She placed me against the trunk of the bent tree. Her eyes brimmed with tears, but they did not fall.

I stared up at her, helpless in my young age. Long, dark curls flapped in the wind as she turned her back to me and stumbled away, tripping over her own feet as if she wanted to leave before everything caught up with her. She did not look back.

I tried to stand. My frail legs, still not fully-grown and dangerously delicate, wobbled weakly beneath me and collapsed after two meager steps. I hoisted myself up from the ground with my thin arms and looked up, drawing in a breath to shout after my mother, to wail, to do _something_ to keep her from leaving me alone.

The breath froze in my throat. There was no trace of the white-clad figure.

What then? I was helplessly ignorant. I did not know how to find food, did not know that my energy was depended upon food. Did not know what my parched throat needed was the sweet moisture of water, not consistent shouting for help. Did not know that if I do not care for my wounds, they will grow worse. I did know one thing, however: The sight of me frightened people. I was the first Centaur; mankind had never before seen such a creature as me, and, like all things they haven't seen before, they were frightened. So frightened that they wanted me out of their sight, off their doorstep, away from their town. So frightened that they hurled spears and waved wooden clubs.

But, even through starvation and injuries, I could not die. I wasn't aware of it at the time, but immortal blood flows through my veins, keeping death at bay but not preventing the sharp bites of hunger and fatigue. The days soon melted into a blur of hunger, pain, exhaustion, and more hunger. It was the dead of winter and no life flourished. I tried everything in my path; brittle leaves, little blood-red berries, sand. I tried killing myself and hurled myself off the first canyon I found; I woke up at the bottom of the rocky pit, feeling as if every bone was shattered, only life remained intact.

Now that I look back on it all, I don't think it was death that I wished for. It was the need to not wake up hungry and cold. It was the need to have someone smile at me, to talk to me, to not skirt around me like I was nothing but a dirt puddle on the ground.

I don't remember how long I traveled, but it was summertime when I stumbled upon Mount Pelion, and collapsed underneath a large tree, temporarily sheltered from the sun's piercing rays. I was wrapped within the cool shade of the thick leaves; the grass was soft and a little wet. I closed my eyes.

I drifted in and out of consciousness, luxuriating in that languid peace unique to summer afternoons. Suddenly the comfortable darkness underneath my eyelids burst with light. My eyes shot open and immediately closed again against the golden brightness.

"Are you all right, little one?" The voice was soft and gentle, a little like music.

I tried opening my eyes again. At first all I saw was light. Oddly, it was not blinding now. Instead, it was a golden beam that enveloped me in its warmth, the most wonderful cocoon of comfort. I never thought of light as beautiful. As my vision focused little by little, I could make out a dark silhouette looming over me. It was man, and he was kneeling beside me.

I didn't try to speak, partly because I knew not what to say, and partly due to the fact that I haven't spoken a word for a long time now. So I studied this stranger.

He was not a man. No. He was something else entirely, even I could tell. His face, a living sculpture that was chiseled down to every harmonious detail with the greatest craftsmanship and care, was filled with concern. I realized that the brilliant golden light came from the reflection of the sun in his flaxen hair; a rich honey-gold that seemed to warm my very soul, which knew only coldness then.

Genuine worry glowed in the light blue depths of his eyes as the smooth voice sounded again. "You look half-dead, little one. Come, can you stand? That's it, good boy." I wobbled on my four legs and stumbled. I cringed and squeezed my eyes shut as the ground loomed close, preparing for the hard impact.

Strong arms caught me and held me steady until I could stand on my own. I opened my eyes and looked up at the handsome, smiling face. The blue eyes were dancing with mirth. "Do not worry, little one. I, Apollo, will ensure your safety and well-being. You are meant for great things. I shall unleash your potentials." Here he paused, thoughtful. The smile on his face grew wider. "You, Cheiron, the first of the Centaurs; you who will become the greatest teacher Greece has ever known."

Apollo gave me a home within a cave on Mount Pelion, and there taught me the skills of hunting, the arts of fighting with different types of weapons, in which I excelled in the maneuvering of bow and arrows. I learned how to play the lyre and the flute and various other instruments, and I was fascinated at the way I am able to produce beautiful melodies just by the touch of my fingers and altering my breathing. I learned how to fight, both with weapons and without, and knew how to turn everything—from rocks to clubs—available to my advantage, and how to use my body to their fullest extent.

Apollo is light in itself. He became my will to live, to impress him, to make him proud. His every movement is a dance, his every word a song. He comes and goes like a storm, with moods that are equally erratic. His wisdom is widespread, yet he hides it underneath mischievous acts and youthful energy. He understands that mortals and gods can hardly resist his beauty and he rejoices in it, teasing them into a game of hunt. Apollo is light in itself.

Later, as the number of Centaurs increased, I set out to gain my place among them. My people are drunken, uneducated brutes, but they respect my knowledge and my skills. It took little time for me to rise to the position of king. Royalties and commoners alike sent their sons to my cave to learn the skills of a hero, to endure hardships and become a man.

All my pupils possessed great potential; I just unleashed them. I unlock the doors that hold their talents within, allow their skills to grow and blossom. Heracles, Jason, Achilles, Asclepius—every single one of them I taught and raised with affection and care, like a gardener that tends to his plants and watches them grow with pride and dignity.

Among them, Heracles was the most prominent. His strength and wit blended adequately together to make him the most famous of heroes. Yet it was he who changed the course of my life—and saved it, from my point of view.

I knew of their presence before half of the Centaurs tottered one by one into my cave and crashed onto the ground in a tangled heap of arms and legs. One of the Centaurs got shakily to his feet and surveyed the cavern. When he noticed me, the fearful expression on his bearded face dissipated and grew to one of immense relief. "Cheiron, sire! You can't imagine how grateful we are that you're present."

"I suppose I can imagine it just a little, Elatus," I replied with a small smile.

He shook his head. "This is no time for chitchatting, my king! The man Heracles is arriving here as we speak!"

I frowned. "Why is he coming? And why are all of you so terrified?" The Centaurs had untangled themselves, and I watched them shift nervously about and look this way and that.

"He has come in seek of blood, my king," replied Imbraeus. The animal bones braided neatly in his hair clinked together as he spoke in his deep voice. "He has come to destroy us."

"Heracles? This can't be right." But my people did not lie to me..

"He has slain Oreus and Hylaeus!" Elatus shouted, his fists clenching in rage as he thought of his two closest friends. "He is a monster! Pholus, Centaur son of Silenus, hid Dionysus's valuable wine from us and, the disgrace, forbade us to have them. We tried to persuade him into serving it, for one doesn't come upon such a fine wine every century. Heracles, who was a guest at his cave at the time, defended Pholus and chased us away like a lion pursues a horde of deer!"

"Surely there is some mistake," I reasoned, my mind running at top speed. Heracles knew better than to fight with Centaurs; he has no reason to hurt them, even if it was done out of chivalry. Heracles may be reckless at times, but he was not an ignorant man.

Imbraeus took a step closer. "My kind, you _will_ do something? We saw Oreus and Hylaeus—among many others of our people whom Heracles has delivered the blow of death—breathe their last in front of our eyes. You _will_ accuse him of his offense?"

Elatus and the others scratched the ground nervously with their hooves, glancing from Imbraeus to me with unease.

"I will accuse only the one that deserves accusation, Imbraeus. As soon as I hear Heracles's part of the story."

"But my king, he has slaughtered—"

At that moment, the subject of discussion burst into the cave and stood, barely out of breath from his long chase. His expression was intense as he faced me.

"Dear teacher," he said, his tone solemn, "forgive my rudeness, but these people have offended a friend of mine, and they must be punished."

"Heracles," I said, "must this be the way? Come, tell me exactly what happened, so we can—" before I have a chance to finish, however, Elatus gave a mad roar and lunged for Heracles. The latter immediately raised his club, but dropped it when Imbraeus slammed into his side. But Heracles was faster. In a flash, he was back on his feet again and had his bow in his hands, an arrow in place.

"Heracles, don't—!" The arrow soared underneath Elatus's outstretched arm and pierced my left foreleg.

An agonizing yell tore through my throat and resonated within the small cave. I dropped to the ground, gritting my teeth against the pain and tearing the arrow out from the wound. I've had many experiences with arrow injuries before, but this time it was different. The pain was too harsh, too blinding for it to be ordinary. I turned the arrow and examined it. The steel tip was drenched with a foul, greenish blood.

Poisonous blood.


	2. Midday

Midday 

The pain was intolerable. The poison ran through my veins and devoured every sort of comfort within my own skin. It soon paralyzed my entire left foreleg, yet the pain did not stop. I spent weeks applying medicinal herbs to the wound, but not even the strongest of concoctions were able to cure me. A depressed Heracles told me the type of poison that he used on his arrows. It was Hydra's blood, one of the few incurable types of venom in the known world. The only reason that it did not go straight to my heart and freeze my brain within the first ten minutes of injury was because of my immortal heritage. My immortality prevented me from dying, but I am engulfed in pain every second of my waking hours. It is tormenting, teasing me by bringing me to the very edge of death, when my soul longed for the sweet, dark oblivion that was the Underworld, but holding me back, prohibiting me to jump off the edge.

The pain soon numbed my senses, and I cannot feel anymore. I cannot walk. I have no intention to eat, and sleep was a lost art. It seems as if the entire world came to have a look at the failing Centaur King, the great Cheiron who is one of the best healers but cannot help himself. Kings and queens and ambassadors, my past pupils. They all speak as if I am already dead, and I might as well be. I talk little to the visitors and spend my days staring up at the blue sky, and counted its many unique colors as it changed from dawn to dusk.

It is two months after my injury when Heracles returned from one of his famed labors, insisting that we go on a journey up Mount Caucasus. "I will carry you," he declared. "You must come with me. There is someone I would like you to meet."

Out of curiosity more than obligation, I consented.

His arms were held back on a large rock, the chains unbreakable immortal steel. His blue-black hair touched his broad shoulders in dirty, knotted clumps. A ragged chiton, its color unrecognizable due to the many layers of blood, hung loosely around his waist in tattered shreds. He was pitifully slim; his cheekbones were sharp, his scarred skin was stretched taut over strong bones, the blue veins underneath striking.

"This is Prometheus," said Heracles. "The Creator of Man."

The Titan god looked up, and I was taken aback at the liveliness of his eyes, compared to the rest of him. Those eyes spoke of knowledge and perception that no god can compare, not even Apollo. Dark, snarled beard adorned his jaw, and his countenance was bold and defiant. His entire being radiated a sense of sagacity and experience beyond one's imagination, yet also a strange, proud sorrow.

"He is being punished for taking the heavenly fire and presenting it to man," Heracles explained. "Thirteen generations ago, my father chained him here, and he is deemed to suffer for all eternity. Every morning the eagle would come and devour his liver. At nightfall, his liver would regenerate itself—only to be eaten again within the first rays of Dawn."

Prometheus regarded me with those piercing eyes, studying me silently. Then he nodded, just once, in acknowledgement.

I nodded back. "Heracles, could you give us a moment?"

Heracles complied and trotted off. We are alone.

Prometheus spoke first. "You are in pain," he said, his voice hoarse but steady. There was musing in those words, one that sympathized.

I smiled. "So are you."

He shook his head. "I am numb to the ache. I have endured it for so long. Zeus just had to choose the most uncomfortable rock on this mountain, though."

I cocked my head to one side, deep in thought. This god gave mankind form, life, power. He taught them all he knew, and saved them numerous times from extinction. For his people, he was willing to risk everything. Yet he did not seem all that troubled by his condition. There was calm serenity in his face, as if he was content with what he had done. And he had just made a joke.

"Do you not regret your decisions to help mankind?" I asked.

"I knew of the consequences of my actions before I took it. I was ready for this."

"Why did you do it?"

His eyes flickered up to bore into mine. "I cannot just stand aside and watch as my people starve to death without food, relent to disease from devouring raw meat or poisonous herbs, or frostbitten and sunburnt without protective clothing. I cannot."

Those intensive eyes moved away, and I realized I can breathe again.

"They are my _creation_," Prometheus continued, his voice thick. "I brought them to this world; therefore I am responsible for their care, I must teach them how to live amongst themselves and with the gods. I care too much for them to just stand aside and leave them in their disastrous state. Then the purpose of my creation would have been lost. Mortal civilization would have ended before it began."

I was silent for a few moments. "Which fate do you think would be worse for one to endure: One who does not wish to die but is forced to, or one who prays for death but is denied it?"

He studied the ground. The blood from his abdomen had ceased to flow; and the warm red liquid gathered around his feet in a dark pool. I could almost see the reflection of his face on the scarlet surface.

He looked up. "Both."

That night, I stayed up pondering over the day's events. I thought of Oreus and Hylaeus and the many other Centaurs that were slain due to their imprudence and lack of civility. I considered Heracles', rising gallantly to his friend's defense and ending up mortally injuring another. I reflected over Prometheus, risking his own life to present men with fire just so they can live, and being severely punished for it. I contemplated the choices of Zeus, who knew how important a role Prometheus stood in both the immortals' lives and the mortals', but could not risk the chances of men forgetting their places in the world and belittling the gods with their new knowledge, and had to deliver the punishment to the god with whom he had entrusted the mission of creating mankind in the first place.

By the time Eos shed her gentle light upon the earth, I had made my decision.

I knew of Apollo's arrival before he stormed inside. A dozen pupils sparring wouldn't have drowned out the sound of his horses as he landed his chariot in a strangely ungraceful manner right before the entrance of my cave.

His fair hair was tousled from a speedy ride through the sky, as were his robe and the chiton beneath. His lips were compressed tight with anger, his golden brows drawn together in frustration.

"The Olympians. They talk of you giving your life to the Titan Prometheus. You know any of this ill rumor?" his voice was unusually clipped in his obvious effort to keep it even.

"It is not a rumor," I replied.

For a moment I thought he would explode, or the mountain will, or the world. He certainly looked enraged enough to do so. Instead, the god shut his eyes as if pained, and gripped his hands until they were deathly pale. Once he had his rising anger under control, he opened his eyes and looked straight into mine.

I forced myself to hold that gaze. Those light blue depths were accusing, searching, and—dare I assume?—pleading.

Something on my expression must have told him that I spoke the truth, for he drew in a sharp breath, his eyes widening in astonishment. "Surely you don't think of actually going through with this revolting business?"

I smiled weakly. "I had wished you'd be more supportive of my decision."

"_Supportive?_ You are trading your life for a _Titan_ and you wish me to be supportive of this thoughtless, _suicidal_ atrocity?" he spat out the word _Titan _as if it had tasted vile on his tongue.

"You make it sound as if it is a horrible deed."

"This is not horrible, Cheiron. _Horrible_ does not come _close_."

"''Revolting?' 'Suicidal?' Dearest friend, why are you using such strong words? For my life, another can be saved. Prometheus is the greatest contributor to man. It is a high honor to be the one to release him of his bond, and the consequence is more than worth it." Death was hardly a consequence at this point, I thought, but didn't dare voice aloud.

"He stole the sacred fire," Apollo replied through clenched teeth.

"For the sake of mankind. Really, Apollo, I thought you are less trivial."

He was apparently flabbergasted that this conversation was actually taking place. I know he knew this would come. He was the one who taught me how to prophesize, after all. But Apollo never liked to believe anything until he had seen them with his own eyes.

Then he seemed to deflate. As if his anger, boiling white-hot just the moment before, was cooled and drained away from him in a matter of seconds. He was suddenly weary, and ran his long fingers through his hair as he emitted a long sigh.

"I doubt this has much to do with your wound," he said quietly.

I looked up, slightly surprised. Apollo never discussed my injury more than he had to—he probably suffered more than I did after I received the fatal shot. He was forever tormented by the fact that he was the god of healing but could do absolutely nothing to treat me, to cure me of the great pain that he knew I was enduring.

I chuckled. "You are right, as always. No, my decision has little to do with my injury, much as it pains me. I have been through harsher pains before. You know that."

He nodded wordlessly.

"Many people thought my decision to be tactless and unwise, but you know very well that I am either of those things." He nodded again, this time more firmly. "I do not have a particular reason, I suppose. A life without ending ultimately loses its attraction for me." I smiled and stopped him as he drew in a breath, obviously to retort. "I doubt you would understand. Think of it this way: I seek neither new love—as you tend to do when life grows too dull for you—nor do I have anything left unsaid or undone in this world.

"It is time for me to leave."


	3. Nightfall

Nightfall 

The Throne Room of Olympus was more magnificent than any palace in Greece put together. I have been here only twice in my life, both times accompanied by Apollo; yet I remembered every detail. From the twelve thrones made from smooth stone and laid with gold filigree to the long, white pillars carved with minute and gorgeous detail. The sacred hearth from which Prometheus took the fire that he gave to men was located in the center of this large chamber, surrounded by the great thrones and tended to by Hestia, the gentle goddess of the Hearth.

All but one of the thrones was occupied. I tried not to be disturbed by the absence of Apollo. He had marched out of my cave that morning in a silent fume. Instead of wondering where he might be, I brought my attention back to the matter at hand.

Zeus the Lightening-Bearer sat on the centermost throne, the back of his left hand supporting the side of his face as he regarded me with deep eyes the color of amethyst. He was tall and impressively built with tanned, strong arms and powerful legs. Streaks of blond were present in his otherwise graying hair and beard. He was handsome, as all gods were; yet he emanated an astute sense of charisma and authority that none of the other gods possessed, and an alluring magnetism that drew others to him without a moment's hesitation.

His voice was deep and warm when he spoke, naturally projecting throughout the large chamber. "You have come here on this day, Cheiron, King of the Centaurs, to willingly offer your immortality to this Titan—" Prometheus, unchained at last, appeared from just behind Zeus's chair, "—in trade for death on your part. Is that correct?"

I nodded.

Zeus sighed. "I am not trying to change your mind, Cheiron, but contemplate carefully. You are the greatest teacher Greece has ever known. Inexperienced boys with raw talents enter your cave and come out valiant heroes, their abilities sharpened to perfection. It would be a woeful loss."

"I have done my life's worth, Father of Heaven. It is time to end that life."

He sighed again. "Very well. You have not only taught the sons of most gods present here, but you have also tutored many of my own sons. I shall thank you by granting your wish—as grudgingly as a god can manage, if you must know."

There was a stirring among the gods at this decision. Demeter, the goddess of Harvest, shook her head and gave a soft, sad sigh. Athene looked crestfallen, her intelligent gray eyes no longer gleaming. Hermes the Messenger god fiddled with his wand, uncharacteristic anxiety filling his olive green eyes. Heracles, leaning against a great column in the corner of the room, covered his eyes with a large hand.

Prometheus caught my eyes. He bowed his head once. I bowed back.

Zeus rose from his throne. In practiced unison, the entire Olympian assembly stood as one. Zeus threw a meaningful glance toward one of the grand pillars, and advanced upon me until he stood only a foot away. He extended his large hands forward, and the hearth that stood between us roared. Without a word, Prometheus came to stand next to me.

Zeus's voice reverberated within the great chamber and my own mind, but I did not concentrate on what he said. Instead, I watched, fascinated, as the flames in the hearth flared bright as the sun and soared to form a tower of scarlet, gold, yellow, orange…Fire that gave man a way to live, fire that could destroy that same man in a matter of minutes, fire that burned like the determination in Prometheus's eyes, fire that shone like Apollo.

I closed my eyes.

Standing behind that particular pillar which Zeus had glanced, Apollo forced back a choking sob. He drew a trembling breath, the stinging tears in his eyes blurring his vision. The growing misery turned out to be too great, however, for even a god to restrain. He let the pillar support his weight and slowly slid down to sit upon the smooth floor, turning his head upward to stare at the brilliant white ceiling.

Strong as he was, the god of Light gradually surrendered to the mounting sorrow. Hot tears ran down his fair face in rivulets, the usually glistening blue eyes now dark with grief.

The god of Music didn't bother to keep track of time as he sat there. The next thing he knew was Hermes appearing by his pillar, and sitting down beside him, drawing an agile leg inward until his knee touched his chest. Standing on the other side of the pillar, Zeus knelt and laid a gentle hand upon Apollo's bowed, golden head.

"Do not worry, my son," said Zeus quietly. "He will not be forgotten. He _cannot _be forgotten."

A few hours later, as his students, friends, the Centaurs and the gods watched, Hermes touched Cheiron's forehead gently with his wand, and the great Centaur allowed his soul to depart calmly from his body and make its flight to the Underworld, where he will enjoy an eternity of Elysian peace, free of pain and mortal troubles.

Nine days after his death, on Apollo's request, Zeus placed Cheiron's image upon the velvet sky, mapped out by diamond-like stars; thus giving birth to a brand new constellation.

And Cheiron's story did live on. Cheiron, son of Cronus and Philyra, adopted child of Apollo, was the wisest of the Centaurs, and the gentlest of creatures. Through his teachings, boys went on to become great heroes whose tales survived the ordeal of time. Their actions portrayed the greatest teacher ever lived within the beautiful lands of Greece, one who saw another side to life and death, one who will not hesitate to lend a helping hand or a willing ear, and one who is remembered best by his benevolence and compassion.

On clear summer nights, along the southern horizon, the Centaur will shine through the clouds and glitter brightly upon the dark, velvet sky, his arrow nocked and ready, pointing straight ahead, and never glancing back.

_Fin._


End file.
